


At Play

by Barkour



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is their game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Play

Loki's fingers are long and light. Writer's calluses harden the tips, and the side of his index finger is worn. "Don't stare so closely," he says, his voice half-rough with sleep. "They're liable to run away."

"Don't be daft," says Sif. She's smiling. She can feel it pulling at her mouth. She runs her thumb across his knuckles. "I've already got them."

Loki rubs his head against the pillow. He looks the cat, sleek almost, eyes lidded. His narrow shoulders are as loose as she's ever seen them. It is a privilege, she thinks, and a gift, how he lets his arms go limp as she cradles his hands in her own.

"They'll be wondering where we are," she says thoughtfully. Loki's eyes have closed. "Do you think we should have told them? They might come looking."

"You've a perverse streak," says Loki without opening his eyes. "I wonder at that."

She snorts as undelicately as she knows how. 

"Horse," says Loki.

"If any one of us is perverse," she tells him, "it's you. Loki Silvertongue. Loki Let's-play-a-game."

"A friendly competition," he protests, "to which you agreed."

"Under duress," she says. Under his mouth, more like. That tongue of his was _wicked_.

He gives a languid roll of his shoulder. The dimming firelight licks long red tongues along his chest, then the shadows reclaim his pale skin. "You seemed to like it."

Sif nips his thumb, and Loki's hands jerk, but she holds tight to his wrists. If he wanted to he could slip away, as slickly as a fish from a wet hand. His fingers still. She kisses the first knuckle of his thumb, a soft apology for the strength of her bite.

"Hungry, are you?" asks Loki.

"Famished," says Sif. She kisses the first knuckle of his index finger, then the first knuckle of his middle. A fine tremor runs down his wrist and then is gone.

In that merry, cool voice of his, Loki says, "I'm afraid you'll find I'm leaner meat than that to which you're accustomed."

She knows his game. She won't play it. The knuckles of his little finger she forgoes; rather, she draws the tip of the finger between her lips. She runs her tongue down to the first joint.

"Thick meat doesn't suit me," she says. She turns his hand over so all the fine lines and calluses are exposed to the light. "And I've grown used to the taste."

His fingers curl, bit by bit. Her thumb digs into his palm, the very heart of it.

"So you do mean to devour me," says Loki.

"Skin," she says to his fingers, "and meat," she says to the fleshy pads at the base of his fingers, "and bones," she says to his wrist with its taut tendons and knobby ends. Then she rises from her knees beside him on the bed and leans over him, towers over him, fills him with her shadow. Sif throws her leg across him; she straddles his bony hips. Loki is spread out before her.

"Is that all?" he says.

"And heart," she says. She runs her short, squared nail down his breast, tracing the thrum of that organ in his chest.

He lifts his hand. His palm is a cool brush across her cheek, then his fingers are in her hair; they are winding, twisting, knotting. "Will there be any of poor loki left when wicked sif is done?" he asks, as if it is still a game.

"Nothing at all," she says, "but your long shadow."

His thumb touches the lobe of her ear. "If you're going to take me," he says, "you might as well take all of me. Shadow, too. Into sif's warm embrace will I go." His voice drops, a whisper now, shivering up then down her spine.

She slides her fingers up his long, supple throat. Loki tips his head back. His dark hair, pulled straight, is spread like the wing of a raven across the pillow. His lashes obscure the green of his eyes. He is at once opened to and hidden from her.

"I will see you laid bare," she vows.

"I cannot be any barer," says Loki. He gestures.

She cannot explain it so that he will not run from it. He is smiling, still, as if he cares for her, as if the hand in her hair is caressing. Does he love her? Her tongue is thick and hard as iron. How to ask such a thing when she could not say if she love him? He is dear to her. He is her friend, Loki. This is their game.

His lashes rise. His eyes are dark. Loki was ever best at such games.

"I will not lose," says Sif.

"Oh?" says Loki mildly. "I thought you'd won. Aren't you going to take your prize?"

She took him.

**Author's Note:**

> With love to Rawles, to whom I wrote this quite suddenly over IM in a wave of love for Sif and Loki. The heart never forgets.


End file.
